


One More Kiss, Dear

by Tournesol



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP without Porn, the plot is Winters seeing Nixon getting out of his suspenders (US spelling) in ep 9, y'all should be grateful for the title bc I almost called this "Brace Yourselves"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tournesol/pseuds/Tournesol
Summary: "Winters' gaze is on Nixon’s hands, the way they fit gracefully under his suspenders, the way lithe fingers he knows so well spread and slide down and up in an effort to get the garment over the slope of his shoulders."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the fictional characters from the show, no disrespect meant to the real guys.

Winters’ head shoots up as he hears Nixon come inside, not sparing a glance towards him. He can sense Nixon’s dark mood, can almost see it enveloping him like a cloak. He’s seized with the need to comfort the man. It’s a familiar notion, the responsibility over the well being of the men under him, but it’s different with Nixon. It took him some time to parse the feeling, hellbent as he was to make sense with his head of a matter that had little to do with it. 

It’s just something that happened. They fell into each other’s bed and for each other. They don’t talk about it because it’s just something that is. It might have been different before the war but their outlook on their future changed dramatically ever since their first jump in the darkness. They climbed into those planes and found themselves to be different men once they landed in Normandy,like something in them had died that night. They’ve lived ever since in some sort of purgatory: Death is now an old and familiar friend and with the thought that they’re living on borrowed time, they’ve stopped the thought of Heaven and Hell dictating their actions.

Winters’ eyes track Nixon as he paces across the room, something warm in his chest lodging at the the way Nixon settles around him with familiarity.   
Nixon’s movements are brusque as he gets his jacket and shoes off, belying his annoyance. Winters asks if he’s alright, his gaze is on Nixon’s hands, the way they fit gracefully under his suspenders, the way lithe fingers he knows so well spread and slide down and up in an effort to get the garment over the slope of his shoulders. 

+++

Nixon turns at the sound of Winters’ voice, but his rebuttal dies on his tongue when he sees Winters. Winters’ eyes keep following the motions of his hands, and when he meets Nixon’s eye, his cheeks flush a deeper red. It’s so strange to have this man usually so self composed look so open and honest in his desire, lust written plainly in the red of his skin and the glint of his eyes. And all it took for Nixon to know this is one look.   
The thought makes his hands falter on his buttons, fumbling, side tracked by the man in front of him. His breath catches in his throat and there’s a shift in the air around them, suddenly charged with some sort of awareness for the other, some feral instinct making their skin prickle at the suggestion of contact.

“Let me,” says Winters, catching Nixon’s wrists gently, then bringing Nixon closer by pulling on his suspenders.

Nixon surrenders his fumbling hands to the assured touch of Winters’, making quick work of the buttons. 

There’s a second where Winters’ hands pause between the two of them and he looks at Nixon, his eyes a question. With a nod, they get Nix’s shirt out of his trousers with four hands, never once looking away from the other’s eyes.   
Winters’ are sinful, and Nixon feels the old thrill down his spine to have that look from that man directed on him. 

It’s almost too much to be under such scrutiny and to feel the soft touch of Winters’ hands guiding his shirt down his shoulders, a pretext to have those hands slide down his arms and hold Nixon’s hands.   
The touch is sentimental and its warmth and familiarity are almost overwhelming to Nixon. He never expected Winters would be so unguarded about his affection and even after all this time, a lifetime in this war, it’s still a thrill to have those hands on him, the skin on skin contact sending heat all the way up his neck to his cheeks. 

Winters’ hands are ghosting at the hem of Nixon’s undershirt, teasing where it rests against his waist. Then in one swift motion it’s off, over Nix’s head, making his dogtags clink where they fall back against his chest. Winters trails a finger over the small chainlinks where they sit on Nix’s collarbone, up to his neck. Winters smiles ruefully at the metal reminder where the army embossed what sums up a person: a name, a number, a blood type. A mere reminder that their bodies are are not their own anymore, that they belong to the US Army. Winters stripping Nix down echoes their first, when the army took them in, stripped them of their civilian identities to swallow them and spit them back as Uncle Sam’s little soldiers.   
With an edge of desperation, Winters strips Nixon of his army issued garments, seeking the man who’s still there underneath the soldier.

Nix preens under the touch, a flush spreading on his chest just from this alone. He feels Winters sigh, warm against his face and is reminded of their proximity. Winters has his hands on his shoulders, just resting there, thumbs tracing soothing circles on his skin. 

Winters’ eyes have taken on a dangerous glint, pupils blown. He holds himself still, in a stance that Nixon has come to know by now as Winters holding back, keeping himself in check when all he wants to do is move. Nixon meets Winters’ stare head on, clenching and unclenching his fingers to stop himself from reaching out.

Time is a luxury they seldom have, having often to do with rough and hasty trysts in the darkness. Nixon can tell Winters intends to enjoy this to the fullest. He lets his eyes roam over Nixon’s chest, trailing calloused hands on his chest, following a path his gaze has previously mapped out. There’s nothing else for Nixon to do but surrender to the touch. 

Winters touches, maddeningly slow, until Nix’s skin tickles under the soft, teasing fingertips. His hand stops and splays over Nix’s heart, giving away his trepidation and want with the frantic tattoo of his heart and the way his chest fills with air, both of which Winters feels against his palm. It means much more than they’re willing to admit, the proof they’re still alive when they go through the motions every day feeling like they’re already dead. 

Winters’ eyes keep going from Nix’s eyes to his lips, a game of sorts, to see who will yield first, and even though Nixon is betrayed by his breathing and heartbeat, he intends on standing his ground. It doesn’t matter that an invisible pull seems to be driving them together, he wants to see Winters break, to see the crack in the façade of apparent control. Nixon bites his lip, running the tip of his tongue on the bite and that’s when Winters bridges the distance.

Nixon smiles into the kiss, and groans, surprised at Winters’ earnestness, but his victory feels short-lived when he feels Winters’ hands trail down his stomach, playing with the buttons of his trousers, which he makes quick work of opening. 

Nixon gets his arms around Winters’ neck and kisses those loving lips again and again. It’s one kiss, that turns into another, then another, and something he’ll never tire of. He maps those lips with his tongue, bites on that damning bottom lip, before licking into Winters’ mouth like it’s going out of fashion, like this could be their last kiss (it could be.) It’s possessive and raw, and Winters responds in kind to Nixon, spurring them on. For all their opposite personalities, they don’t clash in this but complete each other fiercely. 

Nixon gets lost in Winters, in the heat of his mouth, the heat of his touch, letting the man envelop him whole to the exclusion of everything else around them. He’s clutching Winters’ shirt, white knuckled in the strength of his grip, more to anchor himself than to get the man out of his clothes, not that he’d awfully mind if these were gone. 

Nixon doesn’t remember when they moved but he’s suddenly backed against the bed, his legs bumping against the metal bedframe. Winters is attacking his neck, ever so careful not to leave any marks, but kissing with abandon, one hand resting on Nixon’s cheek tenderly while the other runs up and down his side feverishly as if he were committing it to memory with clever fingertips. 

A firm push on the shoulder has Nixon sitting down on the bed. He makes room between his legs for Winters and in a swift gesture wraps his arms around his waist to pull him impossibly close. Nixon closes his eyes and buries his face in the fabric of Winters’ shirt against his stomach, breathing deep, getting lost in the familiar comforting scent of soap and sweat and Winters. He’s almost shaking with it, his senses full to the brim with the impossible man in front of him. 

Sensing him shaking, Winters gets his hands at the nape of his neck, carding his fingers soothingly at the short hair there and when Nixon looks up he meets those wide shiny eyes and sees the wonder in them. In that moment there’s no doubt as to the reciprocity of their feelings, to the naked want in Winters’ eyes reflecting the one in his own.

There’s a moment of pause that has them unmoving as if suspended in time and space, with only the sound of their heavy breaths as evidence of the passage of time like a ticking clock. 

Nixon’s hands trail lower, to Winters’ ass, eliciting a gasp. The bulge in Winters’ pants is obvious from Nixon’s vantage point and he smiles, never tiring of dispelling the virginal aura that Winters seems to project. The smirk dies on his face as Winters abruptly kneels, catching Nix’s lips in a bruising kiss. Winters’ hands splay on Nixon’s thighs, the touch firm and just right, thumbs drawing maddening circles over the fabric on the sensitive skin, rendered alight by touch.

Nixon’s trousers feel tight, impossibly tight and when Winters palms him over them, he lets a pitiful whine escape, squirming and getting harder under Winters’s touch. 

“Damn him,” thinks Nixon, and he might have said that out loud because Winters is laughing, fingers hooking in the waistband of his trousers and pulling with insistence until at last Nixon raises his hips from the bed helpfully. 

In a moment of impatience, uncharacteristic for Winters, he yanks trousers and underwear both down and Nixon could weep at the relief to have the restraining fabric gone. 

It’s a bit of a blur after that, Nixon’s mind surrenders to the sensations more than accounting for the succession of acts being performed. 

Winters places hot wet kisses upon the skin of his neck, his chest. He gives some playful bites too, knowing Nixon likes the sharpness of it. And Nixon tries to be silent but there’s nothing for it when Winters bites his nipple, the sharp pain echoing all through Nixon’s body.

The lower Winters goes, the faster Nixon pants and and the tauter his body gets. It seems like a miracle for the feeble bed to still be holding him up, Nixon’s hands clutching at the scratchy wool blanket behind him. 

“Jesus,” exhales Nixon at the first press of Winters’ mouth on his cock. No matter how many times Winters does this, Nixon will never wrap his mind about the fact that Winters is doing it.

The first time they tumbled into bed together, Nixon had been taken aback. He’d expected ineptness, coldness. He’d thought he’d need to coax those heated touches from Winters, never once imagining they’d be given freely and enthusiastically. He should have known that Winters was not a man to shy from a course of action once the decision taken. His inexperience had not translated into clumsiness because much like everything Winters does, he’d analysed the situation he was faced with, and had taken his cues from the reaction of Nixon’s body, learning fast what Nixon liked and discovering what he liked in turn, their relationship flourishing at finding where their desires overlapped. The experience had surely been more overwhelming for Nixon than it had been for Winters. 

The wet heat of Winters’ mouth around his cock pushes overwhelming thoughts to the edge of Nixon’s mind, anchoring him in that room, in that moment.  
Winter’s tongue is wicked, teasing at the head until the stream of curses from Nixon’s mouth morphs into incoherent mumbling.

“Fuck, Dick…” he says with abandon as Winters stops the teasing to really get into it, hollowing his cheeks and applying the pressure of his masterful tongue on the upstrokes, relaxing his throat to take more of him with each motion. 

Nixon is pinned in place, and it’s taking everything in his power to keep his hips still what with the incredible act being performed, the sensations of having Winters over and around him, Winters so soft and warm everywhere. 

Nixon’s hand shoots from the bed to Winters’ head, never pressing, just present, his fingertips running over the prickly short hair that Winters keeps neatly clipped to a fault. The bristling sensasion echoing in sparks of electricity running over every nerve ending in his body. He paws blindly to seek Winters’ shoulder for support and his mind makes a double take at feeling coarse cotton where he expected warm, freckled skin. 

“Take it off, God, please, take it off,” Nixon pleads, desperation coloring his voice into a whine. 

Winters gets off his cock with a flourish that has Nixon gasp and he obliges, the shuffle to get out of the offending garments seeming interminable.   
He gives a short kiss to Nixon’s lips in apology before welcoming Nix into his mouth again. 

Any semblance of control is lost after that, desperation overtaking them both. Nixon feels as if he might burn up from inside. He now has the whole expanse of Winters’ back to let his hands roam and he lets his fingers appreciate the supple curve of his shoulders, reads the poetry in those ripped back muscles that ripple with movement. More than that it’s the warmth from the man below him that threatens to engulf him whole. He doesn’t know what of it is body heat and what is just sheer intensity of the way he feels for him.

Those thoughts are blinding and leave Nixon to abandon all coherency. He leaves it to his body to translate what his mind cannot shape into words anymore. There’s the familiar pressure building against his spine, the ways his toes curl and uncurl as Winters sets a fast and punishing rhythm. It builds and it builds until heat pools in the pit of his belly and he has half a mind to call a warning, which Winters heeds by humming around him and this is it, Nixon spends in Winters’ throat with a half cry. 

Winters’ sucks him through it, his hands running up and down Nix’s thighs soothingly as Nixon gets back to himself, heaving breaths. 

He wipes his chin and looks up to find himself struck by the sight. Nixon, post orgasm, is a vision: head thrown back, eyes screwed shut… There’s red high on his cheeks and on his kiss stung lips and his skin is glistening, shining with the movement of his still rapid breathing where his neck flexes.  
He’s reminded of the time he’d first seen Bernini’s Ecstasy of St Teresa in a book once. He’d blushed at the time, sensing there was something more to the religious imagery but not being able to not able to put his finger on what. He does now.

When Nixon gets back to himself he pulls Winters up in a kiss, languid and thorough, grunting at tasting himself on Winters’ tongue. They divest themselves of the rest of their clothing and then Nixon pulls Winters up and over him, sighing in relief at feeling the glorious weight of Winters warm and present over him. He kisses Winters’s neck, scrapes his stubble on the sensitive skin, elated when he feels Winters squirming over him. He can feel his hardness against his belly, can feel the desperate need for friction. He keeps on kissing as his hand reaches for Winters’ cock. The angle is awkward, making the muscles of his forearm burn with effort but he keeps going, fueled by the little noises Winters tries vainly to muffle against his lips as he fucks into Nixon’s hand, hips grinding and circling to press against Nixon.

“Come on, come on…” urges Nixon against the skin of his neck. 

Winters is holding himself up with his arms on each side of Nixon’s head and he can vaguely see the muscles straining with effort. Nixon speeds his hand, until Winters’ hips stutter, his release painting both their bellies. 

Nixon holds Winters as he shakes with the aftershocks, runs a soothing hand up and down his spine, presses kisses against the damp skin and hair until they both get down from the high. 

When their skin has cooled and their breathing resumed a semblance of a normal rhythm, Winters gets a flannel and attempt to clean them both as best he can, before joining Nixon in bed again. 

They lie on their sides on the narrow bed, facing each other, and Nixon looks at him as if none of this were real. So Winters’ hand comes to stroke his face and he presses a gentle kiss on his lips, to reassure him that it is.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drafts for months and was originally written for tumblr user [gingereskimoo](http://gingereskimoo.tumblr.com/) . Decided to dust this off thanks to tumblr user [whip-pan](http://whip-pan.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The visual for this is mainly inspired by [this](http://gingereskimoo.tumblr.com/post/137577575617) from episode 9. Look at how married and casual they look! 
> 
> Title from the eponymous song from the Blade Runner OST.
> 
> Come yell at me about suspenders on [tumblr](http://hugatreeortwo.tumblr.com)


End file.
